the ss mtbike, its a Ponce de León, I am ageless, agile,
flesh, bone, muscle
the chain groans
sidi's crest and
circle again
and slowly crest and
almost come to a holt, a stall, push forward and up
we climb.
I got a full lap in as the Wissahickon, from my door, back home. to a nap to a Chaat house in W. phila for dinner to a chair with a beer and a new book.

I've started reading the Klaus Kinski book, his autobiography.  I've been waiting almost 15 years to read this book.  It was published then pulled, to lurid. its free again, to buy and read. 
The first word is good, the second better. 

after clean uping Belmont, I took a strool down and walked through the old trolley line tunnel.
Like a dope I stopped and stared up at the loose bricks,  looking like ready to fall.
the ground had a bunch of them.
nothing fell on me.

while I am pedaling, I do, I feel no age.     and I feel like a cave man, with a stone trying to draw a bison, that's what writing is like for me.


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